


Fracking Meet Cutes

by Stale_Cinnamon_Roll



Series: Mithridatism [1]
Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: 10k-centric, Altered 10k backstory, But only a little bit..., Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Set during EP102, So some slight OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-07-29 13:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll/pseuds/Stale_Cinnamon_Roll
Summary: 10k is unsure of the group the has has found himself with - they are different from the usual people he'll (temporarily) allign himself with, so he'll have to be careful. Observe them. Adapt.They are observing him, too. One of them more than the others. Murphy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A note before we begin: 
> 
> This is meant to compliment EP102, thus knowledge of the episode would be recommended.

From his perch on the back of the truck, Ten Thousand wearily watches the woman approach. He’s still unsure of this group, having only spoken to the old man who had offered him the lift. Travelling with others was… a risk. One he doesn’t often take when he’s so outnumbered. Unless he’s low on supplies, that is. This could go sour at any moment: he has to be ready to run.

“All right. So, it looks like you got a flat.”

Leaning over to check out the tire, he instead meets the woman’s eyes. They’re sharp, her gaze calculating, sizing him up. Is she their leader? He keeps his face as unassuming as he can, not wanting her to challenge his presence. Being unable to drive himself, he’s walked for most of the Apocalypse. It’s nice to let his aching feet rest, even if it has only been for the best part of an hour. Whatever she is searching him for, she apparently finds, as her attention quickly turns back to the wheel.

“Heads up. We got company.” A blond man walks around the vehicle in front, drawing his handgun and nodding down the road. Ten Thousand turns, seeing two motorbikes. Glancing back to the blond, he sees that the members of the group who had picked him up are now crowded together defensively, their various weapons drawn, watching the bikes approach. Well, most of them. The scruffy dark-haired man isn’t there. Is he still in the car? And if they are this suspicious of strangers, then why hadn’t the sharp-eyed woman been so with him? Does she place that much trust in the old man? If so, she shouldn’t. He isn’t the best judge of character…

As the bikes get closer, they slow, stare at the group. No. They stare at the girl. The one from the cage at the school. Ten Thousand’s grip on his rifle tightens: he knows that look. Hates it. Raising his rifle, he watches through his scope as the pair speed away down the road. Tracks them. It would be so easy to pick them off… But no. He is unsure of the group he’s found himself with. Unsure how they would take it. If they would understand. Letting out his breath, he forces his rifle down, pressing one hand into the firm weight of the knife always in his pocket.

And finds the scruffy man watching him, eyes narrowed and curious. Was he the only one who noticed? Is he going to tell the others?

A snarling pulls the scruffy man’s gaze towards the front of the truck, and the man flinches. The sound had come from a Z, one half mangled and caught in the wheel arch. It’s hardly a threat, so why is the man cowering? It’s the Apocalypse: they see hundreds of Zs a day.

“What are you waiting for? Kill it! Kill it!” Turning away and pulling his jacket tightly around himself, the man stumbles back from the truck.

Once the Z has been scraped out of the wheel arch, the group climbs back into their seats. All except the old man. Instead, he smiles, walking towards Ten Thousand, a water bottle in his outstretched hand. Shaking his head, Ten Thousand turns his eyes to the horizon, waiting for the old man to get back to driving. It’s best to keep his distance. Ten Thousand doesn’t know how long this arrangement will last or when he’d have to grab what he can and escape into the trees. He hadn’t been able to do much scavenging at the school before they had shown up, only having time to strip some dead sentries of their ammo, so he hopes that it won’t go like it so often does – the old man had been pretty open about offering him food and drink so far, and hadn’t yet asked for anything in return…

It isn’t until they are searching stacks of ruined cars outside of a mall that he learns the old man’s name. Doc. Whether it’s a nickname or he’s an actual doctor, Ten Thousand doesn’t know. Doesn’t _want_ to know. He probably won’t be around long enough to care.

“So, what’s your name, kid?”

Seems that sentiment isn’t mutual…

“Ten Thousand.”

Doc laughs. Of course, he does. _Everyone_ does. “That is not a name. That’s a number.”

“It’s my name. Made it up myself.”

“Well, I supposed you’d have to. Does it mean anything?”

Everyone asks that question. “How many zombies I’m going to kill.”

“Well that’s a whole lot of zombies.”

“Already on one thousand fifty-five.”

“Damn! So, what happens when you get to ten thousand?”

Ten Thousand pauses before pushing himself to his feet. No one had asked _that_ before. “Change my name.”

“To what? Twenty Thousand?” Doc laughs again. Seems he really likes his jokes.

No one had asked that, either, so he hasn’t actually thought about it yet. He didn’t think he needed to, seeing as he was nowhere near his target. As he approaches a new car to search, a Z snarls at him from within. It’s leaning out of the door window, clad in a smart jacket. A charcoal one. It reminds him of– “Jeff. I like Jeff.” Ten Thousand stares a moment longer, his hands twisting into the silk of the light blue scarf he wears around his neck. A scarf Ten Thousand has worn for years, now.

_It’s not him…_

Feeling Doc’s eyes on him, he gives the Z mercy. Another small addition to his kill count.

Doc approaches him slowly, eyeing the hand still tangled in blue. Ten Thousand is no longer in the mood for his questions – the old man has his name, and he won’t be getting anything else.

Before either of them could speak, a voice breaks the silence for them. The scruffy man. And he sounded scared. More Zs?

Doc sighs, turning towards where the rest of the group are scavenging. “Oh, what’s Murphy gone and done now?”

Murphy? Is that the scruffy man’s name? Not that Ten Thousand actually cares. Rifle in hand once more, he makes quick work of the short distance back to the old man’s group.

And finds them holding a man at gun point. Checking him for bite marks. As soon as Ten Thousand sees the way he focuses on the girl from the cage, he instantly knows, even without seeing his face, that this is one of the men from the motorbikes. And something about him isn’t right: for someone with _this_ number of weapons levelled at him, Ten Thousand’s rifle included, the stranger is too calm…

“What can we do for you? One peaceful group of humans to a lone traveller?” The sharp-eyed woman never even lowered her gun. Good. She doesn’t trust him either.

“Could use a lift. Sure don’t want to spend the night out here alone.”

From over the sharp-eyed woman’s shoulder, Ten Thousand could see the scruffy man – Murphy – shaking his head. “Sorry. We ain’t running a taxi service.” At least _some_ of these people seem to have good instincts. It’s not wise to pick up strangers. Not that he could tell them that. They had picked_ him _up, after all…

The man with soft brown curls steps forward. “Which way are you headed?”

Murphy looks around the group, his face as shocked as Ten Thousand feels. Did the brown-haired man not seen the way the stranger had looked at the girl from the cage? This guy is bad news and so he shouldn’t be with the group. Because then the girl wouldn’t be safe. But as an outsider, Ten Thousand knows it isn’t his place to interfere. Meeting Murphy’s eyes, he hopes that the scruffy man would speak out against this once more. Wills him to act.

He doesn’t.

“I see you’re scrounging for gas. You know, like we used to say, ‘ass, gas, or grass: nobody rides for free.’”

At the stranger’s cocky words, Ten Thousand’s gut tightens. His pale eyes bore into the back of the man’s head. His loaded rifle burns in his hands. Because he could do it. Could kill him right now. No one would be fast enough to stop him. No one would expect it. No one ever does.

He glances back at Murphy, his eyes meeting light blue. He’s watching Ten Thousand. Like he knows what he was thinking.

Ten Thousand lowers his rifle.

“Alright, take us to this refinery. And if there’s gas there like you say, you can ride with us to the next outpost.”

Ten Thousand glances at the girl: she looks about as happy with this as he is. As Murphy is. But if the brown-haired man is this group’s leader then none of the outsiders can safely challenge him on this.

As they load back up into their vehicles, Doc offers Ten Thousand a seat in the front. He doesn’t take it, of course, instead hopping into the bed – the stranger is bad news, and if he’s leading the group into an ambush then a quick exit is a must. If the stranger is playing them, Ten Thousand will find a way to take him out. But if he isn’t? Well, he’ll just have to keep an eye on him. See if a strong enough reason presents itself. The guy is scum, every instinct he has is telling him so. The sooner he’s out of Ten Thousand’s hair, the better.

And speaking of instinct… At the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, Ten Thousand turns his gaze towards the grimy back window. Looks through filthy glass and into the truck. Locks eyes with Murphy. How long has the scruffy man been staring? There’s something about that man. Something that made him feel different than everyone else he had encountered. Ten Thousand doesn’t see him as a danger, no, but he is certainly… something.

Dropping his hand to the knife in his pocket, fingers running along the familiar curves of the white handle, Ten Thousand turns back to the road. He doesn’t think he’ll have to kill Murphy, but he’ll keep an eye on him. Just in case.

~*~*~

It wasn’t too long a drive to reach the refinery. Although why Warren didn’t just beat the directions out of that creep, Murphy couldn’t understand.

As the group eyes up the size of the Z infestation, Murphy keeps his own attention on their greasy newcomer. The guy is clearly bad news – even Doc’s little weirdo had noticed that! Speaking of the little weirdo, where is he? He isn’t with the rest of them, and he was all too eager to follow Doc closely back at the Mall.

Swinging his head around towards the back vehicle, Murphy smiles as he spots the kid trying to sneak off between two buildings. Scuttling into the shadows. _He’s like a cockroach… _The kid’s head snaps up, eyes zeroing in on Murphy. Stride not even faltering, he shoots Murphy a crooked grin as he slips out of sight. _A cocky cockroach._ At least the kid seems like he has a plan. More than Murphy can say about the rest of this sorry bunch. Just standing around, trying to figure out why the Zs are walking single file up the stairs. Who cares why Zs do what they do? Not like there is anything left in their heads except the desire to feed…

“It’s that sound. Like bees to honey.”

Murphy snorts. “Or Zs to shit.” Cassandra isn’t the only one who can pretend to say something deep. What’s making them act this way isn’t what’s important. - getting to the gas is. And with the amount of Zs walking around in there, there is no way Murphy is leaving this damn car. “So, what’s the brilliant plan? Die, get eaten, go home early?”

“What’s that smell?” Addy better not be getting at the hygiene situation, here. All of them have gone too long without a wash, though that biker creep looks especially pungent.

“The undead and gasoline,” Garnett helpfully chimes in. “Both highly flammable. So, no firearms of any kind.”

Well that’s just great. Not using guns means letting the Zs get closer. Oh! And that weirdo kid has that big gun of his. He better not get everyone killed. If he does, Murphy will make sure to come back and eat through his spleen. Maybe Garnett could have made his oh so helpful observation _before_ gun boy ran off. Should he let the others know where the kid went? Nah, not Murphy’s problem – _he’s_ not the one about to waltz into the blast zone.

“Zs like high-pitched sounds. The more musical the better.” Murphy watches as Cassandra pulls a wind-up music box from her pocket. As a little song begins to play and the closest Zs stop in their tracks, everyone stares in surprise. Well, not the creep: it’s almost like he’d known what to expect. Does he know Cassandra somehow? Murphy has seen how she keeps scowling at him… See, this is why Murphy was against Doc picking up his little strays. First, the girl attracted a creepy biker, then she expects them to play a pretty little lullaby for the Zs, and now the weirdo has run off and might blow them all up! Whatever plan Garnett and Warren decide on, Murphy wants nothing to do with it. He cannot save the world if he’s more charred than a well-done steak, so they can fuck off and play their music elsewhere.

Their orders given, the group scatter like good little soldiers, and Garnett turns back towards the cars. “Where’d that kid go?”

Doc glances around, bewildered. “He was here a minute ago.”

_Yeah, good going, Doc. If you’re gonna be picking up pets along the road, at least try and keep track of them. _

Waving an arm towards the buildings behind, Murphy decides to put them out of their misery. “Your little weirdo ran off that way while you were all standing around shooting the breeze.”

Doc just shrugs. “Oh, his name’s not ‘Weirdo’. It’s Ten Thousand.”

Now, see, that stupid name makes sense. Murphy had seen how the kid was staring at the biker, gun aimed at the back of his head. How he had tracked the creep and his friend down the road when they had first encountered them, like he was desperate to take a few shots at their backs. And now Murphy knows why – with a name like _that_, even the kid’s own mother must have hated him. Probably be best to keep an eye on that one – Murphy wouldn’t want to piss him off…

“Well, he better be back by the time we’re ready to go.”

As much as Garnett is right, Murphy _almost_ doesn’t want the kid to get left behind. He’s… _different_ from the rest of his entourage, from others he has encountered during the Apocalypse. At the Mall, his reaction to the creep was immediate and aggressive, but he still knew when to back down. Someone like that could be useful to him, eventually. For now, though, Murphy is happy to settle for ‘intriguing’. The kid – Ten Thousand – could make this Apocalypse a little less boring, at least for a while.

But right at this moment, Murphy wants to get as far from those entranced Zs as possible. “So, what should I be doing while you all are getting incinerated to death?”

With a heavy sigh, Garnett steps closer to Doc because, sure, Murphy may be the important one here – _and_ the one who asked the question! – but he’d be damned if anyone ever gave him any respect…

“All right, why don’t you take Mr Congeniality here and the suburban and get back to a safe distance, just in case.”

Murphy _chose_ to ignore that insult – he can only be so chipper with the weight of the fate of all humanity on his shoulders. And anyway, it isn’t such a bad plan: he’d be at a nice, safe distance. The Saviour of Humanity will not be getting blown up today!

“What if… you know… zombies?”

“If this all ends in tears, you got to get him to California.”

Doc gave a solemn nod. “Sure. No problem.”

The conversation seemingly over, Murphy slides back into the car, shuffling to get comfortable in his seat. It could have been worse. Doc isn’t too bad, all things considered. Not as abrasive or violent as some of the others, and he can take a joke. Not to mention the man knows his drugs! He might even have something in that old leather bag of his to help make the twisting roads roll by that little bit faster. There are worse people he could be stuck in the Apocalypse with. Like Hammond – that’s one asshole he won’t be mourning…

The bad thing about Doc, though, is that he’s awful at cards. Every time the guy looks out of the window, he leaves his hand unguarded and in full view. In prison, he would have been taken for all his has already. And then some. Not very observant, either. He hasn’t even noticed the cards Murphy snuck out of the deck a few rounds ago. Slid them right up his sleeve. Didn’t even have to be discreet about it. Not that Murphy can blame him for being so distracted. It’s too quiet – can’t even hear if they’ve started playing Cassandra’s little lullaby from this distance.

They’re taking too long. Why aren’t they back with the gas yet? And what about the kid? Has he wandered off too far and gotten himself eaten by–

“Wonder how it’s going?”

Doc’s words pull Murphy out of a train of thought he’d rather not go down. Scratching at his ear in an attempt to feint nonchalance, Murphy clears his throat. “Haven’t heard anything blow up. Yet. Guess that kid is smarter than he looks.”

Doc’s smile was warm. Sickeningly so. “You actually worried ‘bout him?”

“Just wouldn’t want your weird little stray to kill us all because he can’t control his _weapon_.”

“It’s Ten Thousand. And he’s good with that thing, y’know. Sniped a Z I was wrestling back at the school. Clean headshot. Could be useful having him around.” Doc scratches at his chin, accidentally flashing his cards in the process. “Keeps track of his zombie kills, too. Already over a thousand…”

Well… _That_ was good to know. Almost puts Murphy at ease, knowing that the kid can look after himself. And if he’s as good as Doc says he is, then Garnett and Warren are more likely to keep him around. Not that Murphy could tell Doc any of this – wouldn’t want him thinking he actually _cares_ or something. “Yeah, well, I’ll let you know if you can keep him once his trial period is up.”

With a shake of his head, Doc turns his attention back to the cards in hand. “Eights?”

“Go fish.”


	2. Chapter 2

Alone.

He’s alone again.

It’s what he’s been for so long. It’s what he’s grown used to. It’s what he now finds comfortable.

Here, Ten Thousand doesn’t have to be on guard, doesn’t have to decide how best to feign reactions. He doesn’t have to try and guess what it is that others expect and then deliver just enough to dissuade them from turning on him. From _suspecting_ him. And this time they seem like good people…

Was he right in choosing them? In accepting the lift from Doc? This group is much larger than any other he has willingly aligned himself with, even temporarily. With how outnumbered he his, should they turn hostile he wouldn’t stand a chance. He’ll have to run. Like he’s been doing for the last three years.

Heck, like he’s been doing for most of his life…

But this isn’t the time to think about that. Ten Thousand draws in a long breath, the gasoline fumes burning his nose, then slowly exhales, the fluttering of light blue fabric catching his eye. He’d pulled the scarf up over his nose to try and stifle the smell, to mask it with the familiar musk that has slowly smothered the soothing scents of his past. Mind calm once more, he tries to refocus on the task at hand.

Ten Thousand is crouched in front of a generator. One of those old gas-powered ones that Pa was tempted to buy for their cabin. He wishes that they had gotten one – it would have been nice not to work by dim lanternlight as the darker evenings of winter set had in…

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Ten Thousand peers into the canister. The fuel being siphoned from the generator has almost filled it to the top. Once this one is full, he might have time to go search for another: the more fuel the better, if he wants to ingratiate himself with the group. He wouldn’t waste too much time searching, though – one canister of gas is better than none, and he hopes to return to the group before anyone has a chance to get hurt. There were too many Zs for them to just charge their way in, especially with the fumes preventing gunfire. And with how scared he is of them, Ten Thousand doubts Murphy can even fight…

Maybe he should have told someone what he was doing? Or suggested that someone join him in quietly bypassing the main pack to search the compound. Ten Thousand is sure Doc would have had his back – the old man seems to like him. He still isn’t certain what to think about that, though: Doc hasn’t done anything other than offer him a lift, then food and water, all in full view of the others. But it’s still early days. Probably best to keep his distance until he figures out the old man’s game.

Kindness always has a price.

Murphy, then. The scruffy man had seen Ten Thousand slip away, eyes curious and amused. Surely, he had let the group know what he had seen. And how had the man spotted him, anyway? Ten Thousand prides himself on his stealth, on being able to slip by unnoticed. On staying hidden. Unknown. It’s a skill that has served him well, especially in the earlier days of the Apocalypse. But of all the group, it was Murphy that had seen him. Noticed him. Ten Thousand had been right: Murphy _is_ different. It doesn’t seem that he can fight, and he fears Zs – even the mangled half dead one from the truck’s wheel arch – yet he had somehow noticed Ten Thousand slipping away. Ten Thousand still doesn’t think the man is a danger to him, but every time their eyes have met… Murphy seems to have better instincts then he’s seen for a while so maybe following the man could–

Could what? Ten Thousand is unsure what this could lead to, or where he wants it to go, but with little else to do and nowhere he needs to be, watching the scruffy man could put a few days or even weeks in. Break up the monotony of the Zombie Apocalypse. It’s probably not the wisest thing, but it is _some_thing, and that sounds pretty good right now. A break from dusty trails, sore feet, scrounging ammo.

Those bullets never come cheap.

With the fuel reaching the top, Ten Thousand stuffs the siphon back into his pack and screws the cap back on the canister. The flow from the generator had still been strong so there is likely enough left to fill up another. Standing straight, Ten Thousand raises his arms above his head in a full body stretch. His muscles complain, joints stiff and aching. It’s been too long since he has slept in a bed – trees just don’t have enough room to get comfy, to straighten his legs out, to roll on to the other side when his hips cramp up. But as sleeping alone on the ground would just be begging for a Z to eat him, trees it is and will be until he finds a house to bunker in for a day or two of much needed rest.

He has already searched through the building he was in – and the few before it – so to look for another canister meant venturing further into the refinery. Clearing a few more buildings and finding a handful of gears and nuts for his slingshot, he’s almost ready to give up. One canister of fuel is better than nothing, right? It should be enough to ease any worries the group has about his presence for a little longer, anyway, so finding another canister isn’t–

A flash of movement catches his eye.

The window. It had come from outside of the window. Too fast for a Z, unless they had become enraged. Ten Thousand hates when they swarm. They move too fast, too dense, for his rifle to be of much use. He has lost more than his fair share of supplies that way, having to grab his rifle and pack and scarper to safety before they surround him…

But that hadn’t been a Z. The movements were too fluid.

Creeping towards the window, Ten Thousand’s grip on his rifle strap tightens, his knuckles going white. It’s the girl. The one from the cage. She’s being stalked along the gangways by the strange biker. He should have killed him when he had the chance, the group’s reactions be damned. This guy was bad news. He’d known that from the start. From the very moment he’d laid eyes on him through the scope.

Ten Thousand berates himself: Pa had always said to trust his gut. He _had_ the feeling; he_ ignored_ it. Now the girl might _die_. Then and there, Ten Thousand decides that the stranger would not be leaving this refinery alive. Heck, he won’t even leave it a Z.

The distance between them is too great for his slingshot to be effective. And with the fumes preventing his rifle from doing the job safely, that leaves only one option. He’ll have to circle around, get in close, then fire a gear straight through that creep’s face.

Retracing his steps back through a building, two, three. Sliding down alleys leading to the other side of the refinery. Avoiding the denser crowds of Zs. Skirting around the odd straggler separated from the pack.

Searching. Always searching.

Then he finds it.

The perfect vantage point: high enough to be on level with the walkway, close enough to where the girl is to use his slingshot.

Barging open what remains of a rotting wooden door, Ten Thousand slinks inside a building, hunting for the stairs that will take him to the floors above. Quickly locating a rusted ladder with half the rungs long broken away, he rushes over, pulls himself up. This is the first time he can truly appreciate how slender his frame is – if he weighed any more, Ten Thousand is sure the ladder would have collapsed under him. The half rotten floorboards, too.

Before he could find a way to access to the next level up, a cry – Docs? – yanks his attention towards the compound below. Dropping low and creeping forward as fast as the precarious floor would allow, he locates the source of the shout. And he was right – it _was_ Doc, the old man wrestling with a Z.

_Déjà vu._

If he wasn’t about to watch someone die, Ten Thousand would have smiled.

He’s still unsure of the old man’s game. Of his motives for offering aid. But letting him die would only jeopardise Ten Thousand’s uncertain standing within the group…

Pulling his slingshot free, Ten Thousand rummages through his ammo pouch, pulling out one of the gears he had found while searching the earlier buildings. Might as well check how smoothly they fly. He takes aim, fires, and then watches as the Z drops. They work pretty well. At Doc’s appreciative smile and nod, Ten Thousand gnaws at his lip, refusing to smile back. He had saved the old man twice now: the first was to endear himself to this group, to prompt an offer of help; this second was to test his equipment while gaining more of their favour. There is no other reason. There _can’t_ be. At least, not yet.

“One thousand fifty-eight.”

The Zs are swarming the car. There must be someone inside. But who? This is far from where the gas is… Could it be Murphy? If it is, his possible panicking could be the cause of the swarm. The scruffy man seems important to the group, so saving him would only commend Ten Thousand further. Running a new gear between his fingers, he tries not to think about how he finds the man intriguing – handsome, even – and how that makes him _want_ to save him.

This is simply to further his reason for living. For his kill count.

The gear flies true. “One thousand fifty-nine.”

With no more Zs stumbling towards Doc, Ten Thousand turns his attention towards the car. There are Zs on the hood, smashing at the windscreen. Cracks have already begun to feather across the glass. If this goes on much longer, the Zs would break through. Would reach inside. Reach Murphy. If the man truly cannot fight, he’d be a sitting duck.

Plucking out a nut this time, he aimed at the closest Z draped across the hood. The one over the left side, blocking the view out of the front window. He knows Murphy is in the driver’s seat – the engine has been ignited – so clearing his view would help the man escape the small swarm.

Ten Thousand has to help him get out of there. Has to make sure he survives.

The nut is released.

And misses. Killing instead the Z on the right side.

“One thousand sixty! Nice shot, kid!” At Doc’s shout, Ten Thousand grimaces. It wasn’t a ‘nice shot’. He had hit the wrong target.

But as he fishes around for a gear – he knows _they _work – the car roars to life. Jerks into motion. Murphy now has enough visibility to drive away, and Doc trails after him with a shout.

Slipping back into the shadows, Ten Thousand took a moment to let his heart stop thumping. It felt like it was about to shatter his ribs and burst out of his chest. Such an alien feeling… But Murphy is safe for now. That’s good. The man is important to the group and Ten Thousand was seen saving him. This should allow him a little leeway with the others, some slack on which to pull when guessing their expectations.

And Doc had remembered his kills. Counted alongside him. Perhaps the old man _was_ just being nice, no ulterior motives…

But this is neither the time nor the place to dwell on such things. Regardless of their motives and regardless of his own, his plan had still worked despite missing his target.

Murphy is safe.

Renewing his search for the girl and the stranger pursuing her, Ten Thousand allows himself a smile.

~*~*~

“Why can’t I speak to somebody at the lab?”

The Sergeant does _not_ sound happy. Not that Citizen Z can blame him – traversing the Apocalypse can be perilous, and the soldier is about as far from California as he could get. But the Package _had_ to be delivered, no matter the cost.

“Well, sir–”

“What’s going on?!”

The Sergeant is losing his patience, that much is clear. Perhaps honesty would prove to be the best policy… “We’ve lost contact.”

“Are they even still alive?”

God, he hopes so. Doubts it, but… But sometimes hope is all they have left. “I’m working on confirming that, sir.” Movement on the surveillance screens before him draw Citizen Z’s eye. Zombies. Lots of them. Heading directly for the group transporting the Package. This is _not_ good – they have to move out ASAP. “I’ve got a screen full of incoming Zs headed your way. You’d better get moving, Sergeant. I’ll find you. But for now, go west until you hit the ocean.”

Silence. And then a light bang. A second one.

“Hello? Sergeant Garnett?” Is the man still on the line? “Sergeant?”

A whine from the pup behind him pulls Citizen Z back into the room. It’s like the dog is saddened by the sergeant’s impromptu exit from the call. And yeah, it _was_ rude. Unprofessional, even.

“I know. I know. But they’re the only chance we got.” Since he’s not going to be talking to anyone besides the pup for the near future, he might as well go back to creating his profiles on the group’s members. “I need some music.”

With a record blaring away, he scrolls through all the cameras currently aimed at the group as they wander back to their car, and he snaps a screenshot of every clear face he could. The footage may be low resolution but the more angles he can get, the more he has to aid him in identifying them. And he has the entire internet at his disposal! He can find out anything about anyone, given enough time. And with the amount of time he has…

Sighing, he glances at the pup. “It’s a good job you understand how lonely it can get here, dude. Anyone else would think this was creepy!”

A flash of movement from an otherwise empty camera draws him back to the screens. A figure, slim and dressed in grey camo, is making their way towards the group. With canisters in their hands and moving at a slow jog, they don’t _seem_ to be a threat towards the Package – even with that rifle strapped to their back!

Switching between cameras, Citizen Z tries to capture the figure’s face only to find they have it obscured. And what is that wrapped around their head, anyway? A scarf? Why would they need that? _Seems a little paranoid…_ He takes what screenshots he can, even if they won’t help much in identifying the person – he needs something for his profiles, after all, and he can replace and update the photos once he gets a better look.

As the figure reaches the group, they receive a friendly enough welcome, so Citizen Z assumes that they must be a member he hadn’t seen before. Making a note to get a better look at their face next time, he turns back to the pup. He swears that dog is giving him a disapproving look.

“Hey! The Package is valuable – one of a kind! Can’t have just _anyone_ deliver it.”

He’ll find out who they are. Even if they kept a low-profile pre-Apocalypse, he has access to _a lot_ of government databases. And with the amount of free time he has had recently, no one can hope to hide from Citizen Z for long.

~*~*~

Leaning back against the hood, Murphy stares at the tanker. Warren and Garnett had filled it to brim with gas. Gas that has now gone up in flames. Meaning that this little pitstop has been a complete waste of time. And he was getting the blame. Again. Not that they were right to blame him! He was surrounded by Zs! He’d only panicked _a little_. Then crashed the SUV. Started the fire…

But at least no one died this time! They were all still here. Well, everyone that mattered. And that includes Doc’s strays. Cassandra’s creepy little friend, though? Murphy doesn’t know the story there – hell, he doesn’t _want_ to know – but good riddance! He was bad news. Even their little gun toting kid had wanted him dead!

Wait – the kid. Where is he? He had seen him just a moment ago. When Garnett had dragged Murphy away from the crashed SUV. The kid had popped up out of nowhere and killed the Z in their way. What did he even use? Was it a slingshot? That doesn’t matter right now. What _does_ matter is where he went. Ten Thousand didn’t follow them back to the truck. Does that mean he had gone back into the refinery? If he did then that– “Ah, shit…”

Doc looks over; his brows pulled down with worry. “Murphy? What’s wrong?”

Murphy weakly waves an arm towards the flames. “The kid – Ten Thousand. He was by the tanker when…”

The old man snaps his head towards the burning vehicle, eyes searching. He shuffles his feet, looking like he’s considering running back in.

“What are you two waiting for? It’s time to move out.” Warren’s tone is urgent, but Murphy can hardly bring himself to care. That kid may have been weird, had no sense of style, and was in desperate need of a new haircut, but in the short time he had tagged along with them he had proven to be the most interesting thing Murphy had seen in… well, _years_. His eagerness to kill the creepy biker, and the subsequent restraint. The way he popped up out of nowhere to kill Zs, and then disappeared just as quick. How he had slipped away from the group without warning, and that crooked little grin when Murphy had caught him…

Ten Thousand could have been entertaining to watch – Murphy’s Apocalypse will be that much more boring now, knowing what he has missed out on.

“Wait! Here comes the kid! He made it!”

At Doc’s shout, Murphy looks up. And sure enough, the old man is right. With a canister in either hand and that blue scarf pulled up over his nose, the stray is jogging directly towards them. The relief that floods through Murphy isn’t for the kid. Couldn’t be. No. It’s because he has gas. That’s all. Had to be. Because that means that this little adventure hadn’t been for naught. That Murphy hadn’t fucked up too badly. Hadn’t doomed them all.

Ten Thousand being safe is, simply put, a bonus.

Slowing to a walk, the kid raises a canister up as he approaches Doc. “Found these.”

Huh. His voice is softer than Murphy thought it would be. Maybe the stray isn’t as hardened and world weary as he’s so desperate to appear.

“Kid. You’re a god!” As Doc raises a hand to cup the kid’s cheek, Ten Thousand jerks his head away, takes a step back, eyes narrowed. He even raises the canisters up between them as if they were a shield. Murphy watches as the old man quickly pushes the shock from his wrinkled face, replacing it with gentle eyes and an unthreatening smile before slowly reaching out to take hold of the canisters. “Let’s get these in the back of the truck, shall we? Time to head on out.”

Seems Doc’s stray will take a bit more taming than the old man had realised. Could be fun to watch. Though Murphy does hope that he won’t become _too_ domesticated – the kid’s feral air could prove to be decent enough entertainment.

As Ten Thousand moves to follow Doc, he glances at Murphy and pauses. The kid’s eyes are searching him, looking for something in Murphy that the man would have no clue where to start guessing at. But the kid seems just as intrigued with him as he is with the kid. Giving in to curiosity, Murphy raises his hand in greeting.

And the kid lopes over.

Yeah, okay, that _wasn’t_ what Murphy bad been after, but any snarky remarks he had about it were quickly swallowed as the kid pulls the scarf down from his face. Stopping a few steps short, he tilts his head questioningly to the side, licking at his lips. _More of a puppy than a cockroach, then._ Murphy hasn’t seen him up close before. Well, not without a grubby window between them. His face is more youthful than he had expected – does this kid even shave yet? – but those grey eyes seem… older. Then again, this _is_ the Apocalypse: your innocence died, or you did. And this kid is a killer. Over a thousand Zs, Doc had said.

But strengths in one area often lead to weaknesses in another. He may be able to take down a horde of zombies, but the kid can barely dress himself. Sure, fashion often had to take a back seat to practicality and survival, but the way he has haphazardly flung that scarf around his neck is _inexcusable_. And Murphy does owe him for saving his ass back there. He’d hate to be in the kid’s debt for too long.

As he steps closer and raises his hands towards the blue garment, the stray eyes him warily. Murphy only snorts, amused. “I don’t bite, you know.”

The corner of the stray’s mouth tugs gently upwards, as if he’s trying not to smile. “I might.”

“_That,_ I don’t doubt. Now, come here.” The scarf is surprisingly soft under Murphy’s fingers. It’s silk, and a decent quality; well looked after. Tucking a corner in here, smoothing an edge out there, Murphy makes quick work of straightening it up. After appreciating his own handiwork with a satisfied hum – the kid looks a little less like he dressed in a hurricane – he decides to indulge a bit more. Satisfy his curiosity. “What took you so long to get back, anyway? Why didn’t you follow me and Garnett?”

After a quick glance back at the truck bed to where Addy and Cassandra are watching them, their faces marred with curiosity, Ten Thousand leans in slightly, closing some of the distance between them. His voice, dropped low so only Murphy would hear, danced with a barely contained amusement. “Making sure he stayed dead. One thousand sixty-three.”

And with that, Ten Thousand is gone, jogging once more towards the truck and pulling himself effortlessly up into the bed. A wide grin splitting his own face and a peal of laughter escaping his lips, Murphy waves off Warren’s impatient glare and shuffles his way back to the truck.

Yeah, he was right: travelling with this kid _will_ be interesting.

Pulling the passenger door open, he glances towards the bed to find Ten Thousand watching him, wearing a crooked little grin of his own.

_Very interesting, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that you enjoyed part one of the series.
> 
> I'm not the fastest at writing but the next story is half written, so it shouldn't be too long a wait...


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